


Edge of the Wind

by amyfortuna



Series: Elements of Maedhros [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Permanent Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 12:52:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3250361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maedhros spends his days bitten by the edges of the wind, hanging from a cliff face with no hope of rescue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Edge of the Wind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mitsuhachi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mitsuhachi/gifts).



Maedhros closed his eyes as they shackled his hands. His clothes were wet and muddy from being thrown to the ground in front of Morgoth. The three Silmarils had glittered brightly in the crown on the head bent above him, so close, and yet so far away. He could feel the cold of the ground seeping into him, almost as cold as the metal around his wrists. 

As if in a dream, he half-opened his eyes when they lifted him atop a fell beast, two mighty Orcs climbing up with him. As the beast mounted into the air, he gasped at the shock of the icy breeze on his wet clothing. Behind him, the Orcs jeered. 

Morgoth had given them orders. They were wearing belts with tools but did not carry swords. Perhaps he could struggle out of their hands once they landed. His own sword lay crushed into the mud far behind them now. He would have to retrieve it later, once he was free. 

He did not doubt the Orcs had been told to kill him, he only wondered why he was being taken away from Morgoth’s presence, why Morgoth had not done it himself. 

They rode on the beast for a long time, the chill wind taking Maedhros’ breath away. He could see the dark ground far below at times, sometimes shrouded in mists, sometimes only a dark mass beneath. They were up too high to hear any sounds from the ground, and rode in silence for the most part. Sometimes the beast they were on would roar, sometimes the Orcs behind him would make a mocking remark to him, but neither of them betrayed their plan. For the most part Maedhros sat in silence, every now and again moving and gasping with pain when the many bruises and sore muscles all over his body made themselves known. 

The cloudy sky above was beginning to clear and show the stars when they approached the cliffs at last. Even then the beast did not land, only hovered in the murky air, too far down to reach by climbing down, and too far up to reach by climbing up. 

And there the Orcs unshackled one of his hands. They took the chain that bound the other hand, and drove a nail through it and into the cliff so deep that it could not be drawn forth by any means. And with final mocking laughter, they pulled him from the beast’s back and dropped him into the night. The fastened hand caught him, the chain extended to its full length, but the nail held firm. 

He struggled for a while. Gathered up all his strength, pulled himself up to where the nail was fastened and tried to pull it out with his other hand. Fell back again, cold, in pain, exhausted beyond relief. The stars wheeled over him. His bruises healed slowly, clothes dried and were soaked again by rain. Hunger and thirst became an ever-present need. 

Years passed. 

The Moon arose; Maedhros looked up at it in wonder, blinking his eyes in the brighter light. He had long ago given up attempting to free himself, realising that even if he could pull out the nail from the cliff, he would only fall to the destruction of his body. 

No one came. Morgoth’s Orcs had passed by a few times in the early days of his capture, but now even they did not visit. He was alone, forgotten, abandoned, in pain. 

The Sun awoke him; the light pouring in like the light of the Two Trees themselves. He breathed in warmth for the first time in years, felt the chill of his body leave him. For the first time in years he dared to hope, even just a little. Day and night now marked the passage of time, and he let himself relax against the stone, mind reaching out, seeking, yearning. 

“Fingon,” he called inside his mind. “I am here, beloved, find me!” 

An answering yearning seemed to brush against his own, and he knew then that he was not abandoned. However long the wait, Fingon was coming for him. 

Time went on. Maedhros waited. And at last he heard it: the sound of footsteps on the cold stone below and the song of a voice seeking his. A harp sang there where no music had been heard, a love song for the lost one. Maedhros remembered it, sang a measure of it back, harshly, with a voice hoarse from long disuse. 

_“I will find you if I search across the sky,  
Wherever you are, there too am I.”_

Looking down, he could see Fingon’s anxious face far below. 

“I have found you at last, but I see no way to bring you down from there,” Fingon called up. 

“Do not leave me here in torment,” Maedhros said, voice rasping. “If I cannot be free, then free me another way and so deprive Morgoth of my spirit.” 

Maedhros could hear Fingon’s harp fall to the ground with a discordant clash, could feel the agony inside him as he worked through the choices they had. 

“I will do it for you,” Fingon said at last. “I can see no other way.” Maedhros, far above, could make out Fingon pulling an arrow from his quiver, stringing his bow. Could sense the will inside him, that upon shooting him, Fingon’s spirit would follow his. Maedhros closed his eyes. 

A rush of wind surprised him, a shout of joy from Fingon as an Eagle swept down. Fingon’s bow clattered to the the ground in surprise, but he quickly picked it up again, and the harp. 

“Take me to him,” Fingon said to the Eagle. And the next thing Maedhros knew, Fingon’s arms were around him, lifting him carefully so that the Eagle’s weight supported him. Fingon was trembling against him with pent-up emotion and Maedhros was biting back tears of relief. 

“Do not let me go,” he said quietly against Fingon’s shoulder.

“I must find a way to free your hand,” Fingon said, gathering himself together and leaping up to where the metal joined the rock. Maedhros groaned softly as the chain was bent and pulled; Fingon worked at it, did all the things Maedhros had done himself so many times. But they had not tools, and they had not time. The daylight was fading fast, and under cover of night Morgoth’s Orcs would creep forth. They had not ventured this way in years but who knew what attention they might attract now. 

“You cannot pull it from the rock by any means,” Maedhros said at last. He took a deep breath. “Cut my hand off.”

“No!” Fingon said, drawing back. 

“Listen, you would have killed me when there was no other way to free me. Now a way presents itself.” He looked up at Fingon, eyes bright. “Free me. Cut my hand off.” 

Fingon nodded slowly, breathed in hard, took a sharp knife from his belt, and with a single strong swift motion, divided flesh and bone and tendon. It was so quick that Maedhros only had time to take one gasping breath. 

The muscles and nerves in the arm were numb from long years anyway. He felt no pain at first. The arm fell to his side like a dead thing, and Fingon steadied it even as he swung down to the Eagle’s back behind Maedhros. 

Maedhros almost fainting leaned back against him and Fingon tore a piece of cloth from his tunic and wrapped it around the bleeding stump. “Go now, Thorondor,” Fingon said to the Eagle, and they flew into the twilight sky. 

They flew fast and far, much further than Maedhros remembered flying on the back of the the fell beast years before. They were not followed. Pain began to creep up Maedhros’ right arm, twitches of nerves long numb slowly awakening to find their ends exposed. 

Fingon held him close, one arm wrapped around him. His face was buried in Maedhros’ hair, lips against his neck. The cold wind sang all through Maedhros but where Fingon was against him it was warm. 

When at last they landed, it was to shouts of joy from those assembled. Fingon called for Healers, and they came, bearing Maedhros away to the house nearby. Fingon stayed only to thank the Eagle who had borne them so far and fast, and then followed. 

“His spirit is strong, my lord,” Carisse, the young Healer, said as she finished bandaging Maedhros’ arm. “He will be well, in time.” She touched Maedhros’ forehead lightly. “He bears no sign of fever. The cut was clean and true and will heal well.”

“My thanks to you for your care, Carisse,” Fingon said, bowing his head. She turned, taking her instruments and bandages, and moved to check on another patient. 

Fingon knelt next to Maedhros’s bed. “Well, love, you are going to have to relearn all your swordsmanship.” 

Maedhros smiled, his first smile in days uncounted. “You might stand a chance then, my love.” He fumbled with his good hand, reaching for Fingon. “Come here.” Fingon removed his boots and crawled into the bed next to him, arms going around him. They held on to each other for a long time, and at last Maedhros sank into sleep, while Fingon lay next to him, keeping watch over his dreams.


End file.
